Before the Dawn
by snowprincess
Summary: Just some hurt/comfort fluff. Something before bedtime. S X J


**Just a quick one-shot that I had to get out before bedtime. Let me know what you think!**

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Sherlock's body shook with the effort of keeping quiet, the grip he held on John's chest tight as possible.

"Shh... S'okay. 'M gonna be fine," John slurred, lacing the fingers of his left hand with Sherlock's over his stomach. He didn't try to loosen the hold, nor did he turn and offer more direct comfort. It wouldn't be appreciated at the moment. Sherlock, even now, held his own emotions in disregard. The fact he was showing this much misery at all was alarming, as well as indicative of the amount of stress he was under.

Hot breaths mixed with moisture at the back of John's neck, making everything humid. He could feel his back breaking out in a sweat, and kicked the overheated blankets down a little further on the bed. The movement twinged his side, exposing the long and gaping bandage stretching from under his left pectoral down to nearly his belly button. Sherlock practically climbed over his back in response, using his long limbs as a ward against the cool night air. This caused John's overused and slightly bruised body to stretch, and he grunted a little as he shifted to get comfortable once again. He felt sleep creeping along the edge of his mind, but fought off the urge to close his eyes again. The painkillers he was on weren't helping the endeavor, but his partner's pain was something he couldn't ignore.

Hazy numbers on the alarm clock indicated it was well into the early morning. John had been laid to bed by Sherlock sometime after midnight. He had vague recollections of the detective checking his bandage and muttering about incompetent nurses while being stripped of his clothing. The time before that at the hospital and the crime scene was even more elusive.

"I thought you had them covered," growled his flatmate, displeasure clear despite the tremors.

"I did too," John replied softly.

They both thought they had the situation perfectly under control. Playing the game. Find the murderer, chase the bad guys, save the innocent. Only this time, the murder had friends. Sherlock had gone ahead to pursue their main suspect, believing it would lead them to the last victim, and had left John behind to deal with the henchmen. When he'd returned, confident in their location and ready to inform Lestrade, he'd found a much different situation than he'd anticipated.

"I don't like it when you're hurt."

John stroked the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb gently, "'M so-"

"Don't apologize!" The harsh bite of Sherlock's deep baritone seemed to startle them both. His possession of John loosened somewhat, but didn't let go entirely. Those of a romantic inclination would even call it tender, especially when the main finally raised his head to nuzzle his nose along the side of John's neck and ear. "It certainly wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't yours either." John's resolve finally broke and he reached up to paw at his partner's curls with his fingers.

The trembling in Sherlock's body finally seemed to cease as he puffed out another breath.

The hospital staff hadn't known what to do with him. By the time John was wheeled in, Sherlock's hands and shirt were splattered with red. The hot summer air had meant his long coat was spared, but his suit jacket was beyond repair, having been used as the initial bandage. While normally the man would have had no problem rattling off the deficiencies of the staff and what the statistically best course of treatment was, he found himself adhered to the side of the room, eyes locking on the sight of the jagged gash in John's side. A nurse had tried to remove him, only to be ignored. His blogger was already nearly unconscious, thanks to his ability to order paramedics around

He'd stood there for the duration, watching as the doctors attending assessed the wound, cleaned it, and painstakingly stitched it up. Forty-seven stitches in total were all that held the fragile flesh together.

Lestrade came and left.

Unimportant.

Only when John's side was fully bandaged and they were told the could go home did he acknowledge the DI's presence. It was with the man's help that he was able to get John into the police vehicle, and then up the stairs of 221B without altering Mrs. Hudson at the late hour in their state.

John shifted again, finally rolling a little to face his partner, using the taller man's body as a cushion. Their eyes met, one bright with emotion, the other dulled with pain.

"You should sleep," Sherlock reminded.

"You should too," stubborn, even when exhausted. "How long has it been for you?"

Did it matter? Every time he closed his eyes all Sherlock would be able to see is John's body, writhing in agony on the pavement. He would hear all over again the gritted strain in John's voice, struggling to give instructions rather than cry out at the pain. Shivers he had fought so hard against made their way down his spine again.

Gentle fingers came to stroke his cheek and bring him out of his reverie. Sherlock took the opportunity to press his lips against against the slightly chapped ones below his, giving as well as taking. He moved on, pressing soft kisses onto any part of John he could reach, drawing the man more tightly in his embrace, knowing John would relax into slumber if held this way. He was careful not to come close to the bandage, allowing the blanket to act as a reminder of where it was safe to touch.

No, there would be no sleep for him this night. There would be rest and healing. There would be tea and a long morning in, watching the sun rise over golden strands of hair. Sherlock would wait until the daylight could prove to him what he needed to really see with his own eyes.

His John was still there.


End file.
